I'll soon have a new little man come into my life, and with Father's Day right around the corner, I wanted to take a moment to honor the very first man who entered my life.
When I was in Frackville for Mother's Day this year, my Mom pulled out this old short story I had written in college. In fact, it was my very first official paper of my collegiate career. She had saved several of my short stories from my very first English/creative writing class when I was a Freshman in college. (I've learned she has secretly been stashing away a lot of cards and mementos over the years too...so sweet!) Honestly, looking back, that class was like therapy for me. I was trying to find my way in the much larger world I was exposed to upon leaving my hometown for the first time; writing was an outlet for me to express all the mixed emotions I was feeling.
My family and childhood experiences afforded me a lot of material for these creative writing assignments, but this very first one still stands out in my mind. Our first assignment was to be inspired by the following theme:
Recounting Experiences: Capturing the Images of Home. It has been over 15 years since I wrote this story and it has much more meaning to me now for various reasons. I'd like to share it with you, in honor of my amazing Dad.
On September 19, 1996, I submitted the following reflection paper (in its original, unedited version):
"Learning the Hard Way"
I awoke at the usual time only to find that the rain I had prayed for had not arrived. I just wanted to crawl right back into bed, but I knew my dad was waiting for me. I proceeded slowly into the bathroom to begin my regular routine of washing my face, putting in my contacts, and doing other essential morning duties. I pulled my plastic storage containers out from under my bed, opened them up, and just stared at the clothes inside of them. I must have sat there for almost five minutes in a daze, wanting so much to just jump back into my nice, comfortable bed. I didn't want to work at all, especially that day. The thought of my dad waiting for me, though, always managed to keep me moving. I got dressed in the usual mesh shorts, threw on a coordinating T-shirt, and completed the outfit with a pair of grass-stained socks.
I went downstairs to the kitchen to find that my dad wasn't there, but I knew exactly where he was. I looked out the screen door to admire the beautiful day when suddenly my eyes became focused on the black truck. The truck was all packed and ready to go with the lawnmower partially sticking out the back. I told my dad not to lift the lawnmower into the truck by himself because of his bad back, but he never listened. He then came into sight and I turned to make my breakfast. "We have to cut all of the grasses today because they're calling for rain tomorrow," he said, smiling as to lessen the harshness of his words. I smiled back, acknowledging what he had said, basically just trying to conceal my disappointment. There was really no point in trying to hide my feelings. He already knew how much I hated to cut the grasses. I just didn't want to annoy him. He often coined the phrase, "You like the money, but you don't like the work." I tended to agree with him for the most part.
After I ate, I put on my sneakers, slowly, trying to stall a little. With a slight groan, I got up from the lawn chair I was sitting on and made my way up the yard. I got in the truck and desperately rolled my window down because it was already so hot and humid. The truck had a unique scent—one of gasoline, sweat, and dead grass. (I would constantly find myself apologizing for the stench to my friends if we needed a ride and the truck was our only means of transportation.)
The radio was always tuned to the same AM station, which, despite the static, was a favorite of my dad's. I would even tune the radio back to that station after I was finished using the truck. Therefore, it was no surprise that the familiar station was on when my dad started the truck. I couldn't bear listening to it, especially when Rush Limbaugh was on, but I wouldn't dare say anything.
We finished cutting about three or four of the people's grasses and by that time, my neck and back were in terrible agony from holding the heavy weedwacker. It was so hot. I would often take little breaks now and then when I was sure that I was out of my dad's sight. Several teenagers lived in the house next to the elderly woman whose lawn we were cutting. I would make it a weekly ritual to just stand and stare at their house and wonder what they were doing inside on such a gorgeous day. Their radio or television would always be blaring. Piles of junk and debris would be scattered around their house—a house with the potential of being really nice. A large Santa Claus decoration hung from their chimney. I wondered if maybe they were celebrating Christmas in July or something, although I seriously doubt that was the case. Then there was their pool. I often wished I could jump right into it, but then again, I guess it would be more inviting if it weren't green. How could people be so lazy? If I had the luxury of having a nice house and pool like that, I would definitely take care of them. I felt a sense of pity for their parents, but in a way I didn't know why. I'm just glad I'm not like that kind of people.
I looked to see where my dad was, making sure he didn't see me slacking off. The grass was sticking to my sweaty legs. I just kept reminding myself that this would be the last time I would ever have to cut all of these grasses, since I would be going to college soon. My back still hurt, though, and I couldn't deny that. Why couldn't I have had an easy job like my friends had, working in air-conditioning (if you even consider what they did as actual work)? It was common knowledge that I cut grasses for my summer job. I have even had John Deere jokes directed toward me at school by some of the boys. I tried not to let it bother me, although I resented the fact that I couldn't just have a normal job.
We were finally on our last grass. I could not wait to be done, although I did not know what I was going to do when I returned home anyway. My friends were gone for the day since it was so beautiful. I missed out on a lot because of these stupid grasses.
Then a thought came into my mind. What is my dad going to do about these grasses when I'm gone? He can't do them all. He would only end up overworking himself. I turned my weedwacker off and focused my attention on my dad. Why does he even cut these grasses? He's retired, so he should be relaxing. He gives me the majority of the money, so how could I be so selfish? I wondered if money was the main reason I am dragged out here every Saturday. Maybe I'm gaining a little more than just a monetary reward.
He was sweating through his tank-top and frayed denim shorts, which were stained and slightly uneven at the bottoms. I watched his slightly bowed legs as he pushed the lawnmower—the same legs I see when I look in the mirror. He is such a hard-worker; he never complains. If my body ached, I wonder how his felt. All I could do is wonder because he would never tell. He and my mom have given me so much already that to ask for anything more would be unthinkable. I'm glad that I never had many luxuries or freedom to sit around and watch television all day long. If I had, I doubt I would be the same person I am today. I owe a great deal to my parents for that.
I began to think that these grasses were not so bad afterall. At least I didn’t have to go to tanning salons like so many other people did. I worked for my tan. Also, because of the muscles in my arms and back, I would often be asked if I worked out or lifted weights. I would simply reply that I cut grass with my dad and laugh at their confused expression. I'm really going to miss cutting these grasses.
My dad noticed me standing there and flashed another comforting smile as to say, "We're almost done, buddy!" I adjusted the clutch and pulled the starter. The weedwacker now somehow seemed a little lighter than it was before.
Dad, I have learned a lot from you, whether the 'teachings' were intentional or not. Among other things, you taught me to be appreciative, hard-working, and to always stand up for myself (not to mention, to always make sure I changed my oil and checked my tires, Lol!). I have come a long way since those grass-cutting days and am eternally grateful to you and Mom. I only hope I can be as good of a parent as you both have been to me.
Happy Father's Day!
Love, your daughter and "buddy",
Loni
XOXO
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"...The dance has begun
We twirl around the floor
But I know you're not my little girl anymore
A lovely young woman has taken her place
And there's happiness written all over her face
But always remember although we must part
You may leave my arms but never my heart..."
- Daughter of Mine, written by John McDermott
